


Burnt my mouth with its sweetness

by RurouniHime



Series: Day series [12]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bicycles, Fluff, Honeymoon, Hotel Sex, M/M, Nudity, Sex in a Car, Sexual Content, Travel, Twitterpated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4047874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The honeymoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eames

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, fluffity. Lots of fluffy fluff and starry-eyed boys.
> 
> Title from this quote by Amy Lowell: "When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness."

They have more sex that first weekend than even newlyweds should. Not that Eames minds. It’s just so easy to touch Arthur. 

“And now I can,” he mouths to himself. Which is ridiculous, because he’s been able to touch Arthur for years, never mind being hung up on just the idea for over a decade now, and still, it’s as if he’s being short-changed every time he gets his hands on Arthur, thirsty beyond belief and forever trying to make up the difference.

Maybe if Arthur didn’t respond as though he knows exactly what Eames is going through.

The road undulates and the California hills look like they’ve been folded from gold velvet. Eames squints out the side window, checks the road before him, then risks it again. At the top of the nearest hill are tufts of purple, some sort of brush flower. Not noticeable if he had looked too quickly, but the longer Eames stares, the richer the color becomes, the more it separates from the sepia.

The sun is a heavy, liquid light that makes the asphalt gleam, and Eames smiles.

He glances to the right and finds Arthur still slumped with his shoulder against the door, knees bent, but now watching him silently. How he crams his limbs into the corner is a mystery, but the comfort is obvious, the slackness of every muscle and the lazy dip of his eyelids.

Eames lifts an eyebrow and checks the road again. “Yes?”

Arthur’s smile comes on faint and slow. “Just looking at my husband.”

This time Eames grins. Arthur’s smile widens, sloping into other territory, and Eames laughs.

“Might want to dial it back,” he cautions. “Your husband happens to be driving and can’t do anything about _that.”_

“And here I thought you could multitask.”

“If I were willing to crash this car.”

Arthur just smirks at him and rubs a hand down the crease of his hip. The motion looks distracted. Eames knows better.

“In a dream, darling, I promise.” They’re still miles from their destination. They don’t have a PASIV, and Eames would—

“Rather have the real thing anyway,” Arthur says, unconcerned. It startles another laugh out of Eames.

“I don’t need to think my own thoughts at all anymore, do I?”

Arthur shrugs. It’s languid and insolent. Eames pictures bare shoulders, his fingers tracking over the musculature of that very same motion under morning light.

He switches lanes and takes the exit coming up without looking at the sign. It’s a two-lane road slithering between two hills, not a building in either direction. Arthur sits up, craning to look out the window. Eames drives until the first rise hides the freeway, then pulls over and turns off the engine. He unbuckles his seatbelt, and Arthur slumps back, waiting for him, clicking his own belt free and pulling Eames firmly over the center console by his shirt. Eames kisses Arthur, crawls into his lap and gets his pants open, cramped into the passenger seat of their rental with the smell of Arthur all around him, the ache of last night in his thighs and back, and Arthur’s chuckle warm over his mouth. 

“Not going to make check in,” Arthur admonishes, loosening Eames’ belt buckle with deft hands and hitching the seat-back to lie flat. He smells like Eames’ cologne, and that’s just unfair.

“No, we are not.”

“Honeymooner’s prerogative,” Arthur breathes. Eames rushes his incoherent agreement.

Eventually, he manages to crank the window down. Evening air flows in, filled with the scent of the sea, and he sets to the task of falling apart properly.

~tbc~


	2. Arthur

“You are going to burn,” Eames warns. Arthur shields his eyes from the sun and watches Eames’ attention wander the entire length of him. “All over.”

“I’m wearing sunscreen.”

Eames’ gaze drops pointedly. “Even there?”

“Even there.” And hadn’t that been a pleasant application process.

Eames drops his sunglasses back over his eyes and stands with his hands planted on his hips, looking away toward the rocks. His shirt billows, white cutting across the black of his swim shorts. “That’s a relief. My week’s enjoyment rather hinges on that particular bit.”

Arthur lays his book open-faced on his chest and spreads his knees a little. Chair’s comfortable, taut canvas stitched around cool plastic. There’s a gel pillow built in, and an umbrella, but it’s not open. They’re the only ones on this beach. “Which bit again?”

Eames utters a noise that makes Arthur push his sunglasses down his nose. It sounds strung out and weak, and it contrasts so beautifully with all that ink and muscle. Eames is uniformly pale, hair curling over his chest and thickening as it winds lower under his waistband. His skin is still damp, glittering where the seawater beads, and the muscle is only slightly defined there, a faint cut to his hips that makes Arthur’s fingers itch.

Eames exhales. “Oh, Arthur, the entire package, you know that.”

“But—” Arthur lets his knees drop further, slipping one heel over the chair’s edge to rest in the sand. “This bit, specifically.”

Eames tosses his shades vehemently onto the blanket and shrugs his shirt off. “I mean,” he says, thumping down on his knees next to Arthur’s chair, “the entire package.”

His hands cage Arthur’s stomach, thumbs either side of his navel and palms sliding inexorably upward. He ducks in the other direction, buries his face in Arthur’s skin. Arthur feels a toothy grin against his overheated hip. 

~tbc~


	3. Arthur

Arthur leaves Eames in bed with the curtains billowing and goes downstairs. He rents a bicycle, and rides along the coastal cliff until his jersey is soaked to his back, his breathing fierce, and his blood pumping hard. He stands on a vista point for a while watching the gulls circle, the surf below, then turns the bike and heads back. On the way, he comes across a woman with a streamlined helmet slung over her handlebars, patching up a blown inner-tube. Arthur asks her about the area while she works, and when her tire is ready, she falls in beside him. They ride for a ways together before she bids him a cheery good day and peels off onto an adjacent path. 

The sun is beating down when he reaches the resort.

“Good ride?” the guy at the rental counter asks.

“Great,” he huffs, and the guy grins.

“Well, you know where to find us.”

Upstairs, he finds the curtains drawn back, the bed made, and Eames asleep across the bedspread with his hands folded over his stomach. He’s in boxers and a clean white tee, the sleeves stretching around his biceps. Bare feet. Arthur crawls onto the mattress, hair still dripping, and nuzzles into a kiss. Eames smells like chlorine and toothpaste. 

“Mm.” Eames hitches a breath, then moves all at once. He drags Arthur flat against him, pressing his nose to the arc of Arthur’s neck and inhaling deeply. Arthur rubs his sweaty head against Eames’ cheek and the grip on him tightens.

“Smell fantastic,” Eames growls. His voice cracks from sleep. Arthur runs a hand through the spikes of Eames’ hair.

“You went to the pool without me.”

“I swear I didn’t have any fun.” The sentence vanishes against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur works Eames’s shirt over his head, and helps Eames peel the damp cycling jersey away. He strips them out of their shorts and pulls Eames’ knees either side of his hips. Eames’ fingers trip down his back, slick through sweat, run up into his hair and curl in the damp tendrils.

Eames is still loose from last night; Arthur eases into him with just enough friction to make them both groan. He listens to the shallow breaths against his temple, turns Eames’ face to his as they settle, and nibbles his mouth. Eames shudders against him, shoulders to hips, squeezing with his thighs, then exhaling long and shaky over Arthur’s lips.

Arthur kisses him, deep. Bites his ear, presses his nose just behind, fucks him slowly and intently. Eames fumbles back, locking fingers around the bedpost, and Arthur fists a hand into his hair and plies a messier kiss that ends on a ragged gasp. It takes a long, long time before the first of them comes. 

**

They shower and go for a walk, meandering around the grounds as the air cools off, the breeze blowing in over the cliffs. It’s a big place: there’s an additional wing jutting off inland, with tennis courts and the lap pool and a rooftop restaurant. There’s a tiny hedge labyrinth surrounded by immaculate landscaping, and then it gives way to the bright purple flowers of ice plant and waving grass. Arthur hooks a thumb in Eames’ belt and relishes the gentle tug on his arm as their route separates and moves them together. 

At dusk, there’s a banquet on the patio overlooking the ocean, to promote a local vineyard. Eames tangles their fingers unevenly at Arthur’s hip, chest firm against his side as they walk onto the veranda. Then his hand slides free and he’s pulling gently at Arthur’s jacket. “Hang this up?”

There’s a wardrobe across the way, with a uniformed bellhop presiding. Arthur nods. It’s a comfortable night.

He gets drinks while Eames is gone. The woman from the bike trail is at the makeshift bar. She waves when she spots him.

“How was the ride?” she asks.

“Fantastic. Yours?”

She shrugs, but grins. “Very nice. I’ve done it a hundred times, but it’s a good one.” She takes a sip of her very red drink. “I’m Shannon.”

Arthur introduces himself, and Shannon asks him how he likes the resort. That segues into what he’s planning on doing while he’s here, and eventually to where he’s come from, and where she grew up.

“Do you want to get dinner together later?”

Arthur smiles faintly and lifts his left hand. She sighs and glances to the side, an exaggerated curve to her mouth.

“It is true, then,” she says. “Married or gay.”

“And sometimes, they’re both.” Eames comes up on Arthur’s left and slides an arm comfortably around his waist. He presses his lips to Arthur’s temple, then waggles his ring finger at Shannon. She laughs. 

“Shannon,” she says, extending a hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr…?”

“Whitmore,” Eames says, and shakes her hand. “But please, call me Wally.”

“Is this recent?” She indicates their rings.

“Five days, two hours, seventeen minutes,” Eames says, and it’s more for Arthur than for her. When Arthur looks over, Eames’ eyes are soft and full on his face.

Shannon laughs harder. “That right there? Tells me plenty.”

Arthur studies Eames’ face as he responds, and loses track of the conversation. He studies the deep line framing Eames’ smile, the fullness of his lower lip and the imperfect texture of his upper, the haze of stubble curving down in front of his ears. Arthur can smell him, can see the ripple of each heartbeat at the base of his throat.

“So you’re the morning cyclist?” Eames is saying. “He was telling me about all the trails around here.”

“There are some good long rides right above the water. Sometimes you can see whales. Do you bike?”

“Not as such,” Eames hedges, and they both chuckle. 

Arthur summons his voice. “He spent the morning snoozing.”

“Hey,” Shannon says, “there’s a time and a place.”

“You see, darling?” Eames cocks his head. “Behind the times.”

Arthur kisses him, because he can, because no one here will think twice, and because he’s sick of all the second thoughts that go into working alongside one’s fiancé in a hazardous profession. Here, he’s not even Arthur anymore, and Eames is not Eames. Here, they’re just married, and amazed by that fact. 

Arthur pulls Eames closer by his belt loops, until their bodies press from shoulder to hip, and quietly lets himself be smitten.

“They’re doing fireworks on the patio later,” Shannon says. “We should go commandeer the good seats.”

They fill plates at the lavish buffet, Eames talking about everything under the sun with Shannon as he pops pear tomatoes and bruschetta squares next to Arthur’s salad. Outside, there are already people lounging in chairs, facing the ocean. It’s not quite dark yet; the sun still hangs above the horizon, turning the water into a molten mirror. It’s cool out, but not unpleasant. They eat side by side on the same chair, and as the sun finally begins to disappear into the ocean, it occurs to Arthur that—

“You know, darling, our room faces west.” Eames is using the last bit of focaccia to sop up the vinaigrette from his salad. Shannon has since begun a conversation with the woman on the other side of her, who seems barely able to contain herself at the size of the resort. Arthur clears his throat, drains the last of his glass and gets to his feet. He pulls Eames up with him, right into his space. The shadows cast long, but Eames’ eyes are still warm and fixed.

“Come on, _Wally.”_

Eames huffs over his cheek.

“You can call me whatever you like,” he whispers into Arthur’s ear.

“Remember you said that.”

They end up back upstairs, the lights off and the windows thrown open, curtains drifting away from the wall like gauze. Eames’ bare skin lights red-gold-green from the fireworks, shadow and light as he fucks Arthur slowly, and Arthur traces the path of goosebumps over Eames’ chest when the breeze hits just right. He comes with Eames’ face buried in his throat, his fingers curled around Eames’ nape and Eames’ hair soft and damp under his thumb.

~tbc~


	4. Eames

“Changed my mind,” Eames slurs into the skin of Arthur’s neck. “Let’s not go on.”

That background whine is building, the voices of people shuffling baggage and finding their seats, but he refuses to open his eyes. He feels the rumble of Arthur’s amusement.

“Should have said,” Arthur murmurs, bumping Eames’ ear with his nose. “Before we got on the plane.”

Eames twists a little, but there’s only so far he can go: Arthur’s buckled him in. Very considerate of him, but not good for the plan. “Darling, let’s go back. That bed was filthy with us, they can’t have changed the sheets yet. We can fuck the day long and you can eat dessert off me like we have been, and it’ll be messy and lovely and Europe’s overrated, I’ve been there.”

There’s silence, then Arthur clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says to someone.

Eames cracks an eyelid and finds his other seatmate staring at them askance. He looks less than amused. “Oh, bugger you,” Eames retorts and slumps into Arthur’s side again. He’s wearing his aftershave, when did he even have time to shave? “Fine, we’ll go.”

Arthur pulls the plane-issued blanket up over Eames’ shoulder.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a little snip that didn't make it through the final cut. Perhaps it will pop up elsewhere.
> 
> ...
> 
> “Darling, I’m not saying you can’t drive. It’s just that you _can’t drive.”_
> 
> “I know where we’re going.” Arthur grits his teeth. It’s not even a lie, damn it. Sue him for trying to show Eames the scenic route.
> 
> Eames snaps the map upright and clears his throat. “That would explain why you didn’t turn back there.”
> 
> “If you’d turn off the damned dome light, I might actually be able to make out the street signs.” They’re late. They’re so fucking late. They were supposed to be eating a room service smorgasbord an hour ago.
> 
> ...
> 
> Do de do de doooo...


End file.
